What is a "Bop"? What is "free"?

On another note, I'm going to give you something instead of throwing it away. Trite, I think, is apt.
On his second day in the city Milhaus was mugged. The apartment where he’d been staying was his sister’s. Lucianne. Four grown children, a single empty-nester in a cheap three-room flat above a small used clothing store in a semi-disreputable warren of townhouses. Her ex-husband, a skinny, freckled giraffe of a man, would never have lived above a used-clothing store. Milhaus had noted on more than one occasion that his children looked much more like himself than Lucianne’s looked like their father. On the most recent such suggestion Lucianne had smiled and suggested that Milhaus step down to the market on the next block and pick up some cream; she had just put a kettle on and she knew how he liked a fat splash of cream in his after-dinner coffee.

His leather soles shuffled in the fag ends and glass grit on the sidewalk. Lucianne made him mindful of his responsibilities, and how he hated them, and her.
Nowhere to go... (later, we find out that we ought not be sorry for him at all, how shocking, for he is a Bad Man).


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